


The Husband

by Violsva



Series: The Landlady [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Female John Watson, Friendship, Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:44:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Watson begins to assist Holmes on his cases, with unfortunate side effects. Holmes, as always, has a solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I was driven from my bed one morning early in 1883 by a frantic pounding on the door, combined with persistent bell-ringing. I was not inclined to go out of my way at seven o’clock on a Sunday, so I merely threw a dressing gown over my nightdress as I went downstairs. Luckily, the visitor was a woman, and one in enough distress to care not at all about my attire. For herself she was all in black, and heavily veiled. I took her at first for a widow.

“I must see Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I must.”

“Mr. Holmes is still in bed,” I said with certainty. The man kept very odd hours, but they were generally late rather than early. If he had been awake this morning he would no doubt have come downstairs himself to tell off the visitor for disturbing his experiments.

“You must wake him up,” she said. “Please, madam.”

“Come back later in the day.”

“I can’t. My stepfather cannot know I’m away. Please.”

I could not refuse such an appeal as that. I showed the lady up to Holmes’ sitting room, lit the fire, and then knocked on his bedroom door. It took quite a lot of knocking before he thrust out his head and said, “Yes, what?”

“You’ve a client,” I said. “She says she cannot come later in the day.”

“God dam – all right. Give me fifteen minutes. Tea, please, Miss Watson – no, coffee.”

“Of course,” I said, feeling in need of the stimulant myself.

When I had dressed and managed to arrange coffee, Holmes was sitting across from the client being charming. He does it very well, when he wishes to.

“Ah, coffee!” he said when I knocked. “That will warm you, madam.”

“It is not cold that makes me shiver,” said the lady in a low voice.

“What then?”

“It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.” She raised her veil, and for the first time I saw her drawn, agitated face properly. Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

“You must not fear,” said he, soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. “We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. Come sit and listen, Miss Watson, if the lady does not mind. You may be helpful. You have come in by train this morning, I see, madam.”

He put her at ease with a string of deductions, and she then told us her story. It was horrifying, though for me not as horrifying as seeing the print of a hand in red on her arm and hearing her try to excuse her stepfather’s treatment of her. It was terribly clear that she and her sister had both lived in fear of him. Holmes sat staring into the fire for some time after her story. At last, he insisted on seeing her house that very day, if at all possible.

“Excellent,” he said, when she told him it could be managed. “Miss Watson, are you adverse to coming?”

“By no means,” I said, feeling my heart beat faster. I had seen Holmes go out on cases, heard him advising clients, and occasionally been told of his adventures, and it all had inspired in me a very great wish to see some more of them firsthand. He had never invited me before, though.

“Then we shall both come,” said Holmes, and Miss Stoner looked deeply relieved. He invited her to breakfast, but she demurred and left.

“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.

“It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business,” I said.

“Dark enough and sinister enough,” he agreed.

We discussed it for a little – actually discussed: he listened to what I said, and agreed with me when I pointed out the objections to his theory. It was not unusual that he would describe his cases to me in brief, but I suspected that his openness and invitation this time came from his belief that Miss Stoner would be more comfortable with another woman around. I did not have long to consider it, however. Moments later the maid cried out in shock, and then the door to Holmes’ rooms was suddenly dashed open and a huge man was framed in the aperture.

He was Dr. Grimesby Roylott, as he told us – or rather, told Holmes. He did not seem to notice me at all, at first. He insulted Holmes terribly, though Holmes clearly found it nothing but amusing.

But when he stepped toward Holmes, I had had enough. I started to my feet and reached for the pistol in my pocket, but the man only strode to the fireplace, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve.

“See that you keep yourself – and your bitch – out of my grip,” he snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

Holmes started after him, but checked himself when it became clear the man had left the house entirely. He turned to me, focused his gaze on my hand where it lay over my pistol, and started.

“Going armed in your own house, Watson? How long have you done that?”

“Since the Jefferson Hope case,” I admitted. “Not all the time, only when I think there may be need.”

His frown deepened. “I fear my presence has been deleterious to your security,” he said. “You ought not to feel you need to resort to such measures.”

“I am not frightened,” I said. “I merely – I know it may be useful.” I tried to think of another way to put it. “If I thought that my home was not safe with you in it, I’d have given you notice.”

“I see.” He stared into the fire for a little more time.

“I rather miss usefulness,” I said, attempting to sound casual. “I’ll bring it to Stoke Moran.”

“An excellent argument with gentlemen who can tie steel pokers into knots,” he agreed, then leapt to his feet. “Speaking of which, we can’t allow yours to remain in such a state.” He picked it up, and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

He smiled at me as he returned it to the rack – not with pride, or flirtation, or condescension, or any of the other smiles men had tended to direct at me before my injury. With understanding. I smiled back and returned my gun to my pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

After Holmes examined the bedrooms, and clearly drew his conclusions, though he refused to communicate them, we took two rooms in the village inn and I stepped into his, which commanded a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clenched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

“Do you know, Miss Watson,” said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, “I think you had better remain here tonight. There is a distinct element of danger.”

“Can I be of assistance?”

“Your presence might be invaluable.”

“Then I shall certainly come.”

“It is very kind of you. You will stay with Miss Stoner?”

“Surely she cannot be in much danger, if Dr. Roylott believes her to be somewhere else?”

Holmes gave a quiet laugh. “As you say. I did tell you to bring your revolver, and I think there shall be more need of it with me than with her.”

And so I waited with him on that dreadful vigil, until the room was invaded by some unseen malevolence and we heard the horrible scream of Dr. Roylott. I grabbed my pistol and we met Miss Stoner in the hallway. She was very pale, but quite collected. “What is it?” she asked, and I remembered that she had heard a horrible scream in the night once before, and that for her the worst had already happened.

“Let us see,” said Holmes, and he struck at Dr. Roylott’s door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand.

When the sight before us convinced me my revolver would be useless, I stepped forward, and the yellow band around Roylott’s unmoving head at began to move, and displayed the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a snake.

“The band,” whispered Miss Stoner, “the speckled band! Oh, Julia...” She was shaking now as she had not been before.

“It is a swamp adder,” said Holmes, “the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten.”

“So short a time,” I told Miss Stoner, placing my hand on her shoulder. “It cannot have been very painful for your sister.” I knew the words to be ridiculous after the dreadful shriek we had heard, but I had to say something. I guided her to sit down and found her some water, and then went back to where Holmes was examining the snake.

“Some of the blows of my cane came home,” he said, mostly to himself, “and so it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's death, though I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience. I must get Watson and Miss Stoner out – oh, Watson, here you are.” It is difficult to surprise Holmes, except when his scientific curiosity has been roused and he is involved in some study.

“I saw one in India, with a street performer,” I said. “He had removed the fangs from his, of course. It is very unusual, for a snake; it has a sort of mania to attack once it has been struck. I advise you to keep farther back.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened.”

After that he began regularly inviting me on his cases, and I was eager enough to see more outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. Occasionally he even found my presence helpful.

We once interviewed an old gentleman in the presence of his nurse. It had to be in her presence – she was unwilling to leave him alone long enough for Holmes to talk with them both separately. So we sat in the dim unaired room, the windows tightly shut, the patient in a huge old-fashioned four-poster bed covered in blankets, and Holmes asked them questions about the Colonel’s son-in-law. I could not say now what he asked precisely, for my attention was elsewhere.

“ _That_ woman,” I said, once we had left, “was _certainly_ not professionally trained.”

“Wasn’t she?” asked Holmes, turning sharply to face me.

“Definitely not,” I said. “I knew better two months into my training than to keep a patient in a room like that.”

“She could not have been taught differently from you?”

“Most nursing schools are based on Miss Nightingale’s methods. I doubt it.”

Holmes smiled. “How interesting. Mr. Anthony said she had the highest qualifications. Thank you, Watson.”

As it turned out, the ‘nurse’ was in fact Mr. Anthony’s lover. She thus stayed conveniently close to him, and more importantly was able to influence the Colonel to give his daughter’s husband more control over her potential inheritance.

Mostly, though, Holmes saw far more than I, and far quicker, and I was content with that. I did not have his brain, but I could at least be a reliable support to him or his clients. I realized I was more than merely a support when Charles Augustus Milverton appeared in our sitting room. When it became clear he could not be reasoned with, Holmes sprang from his chair.

“Get behind him, Watson! Don't let him out! Now, sir, let us see the contents of that note-book.”

Milverton reached inside his coat, but I had already confronted him with my pistol. He staggered back in some shock. His only notice of me before had been to suggest that the matter was not fit for my ears.

“This is theft, you know,” said Milverton, with a poor imitation of his earlier calm. “The law would take a poor view of it, Mr. Holmes.”

“And how would you explain how you came by such papers in the first place?” asked my companion. But we could not hold him prisoner, and after searching him we had to let the abominable man leave. Lady Eva’s letters were not in his pocketbook, but Holmes did manage to divest him of papers belonging to other victims.

Holmes, afterwards, smiled at me and said, “It is dreadfully useful, Watson, to have a companion whom others so often underestimate.”


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes began to not only offer but insist upon my coming with him on cases, even when I ought to be doing something else. I am afraid I did not object too strongly, though the house suffered for it. At least I knew my lodger would not be complaining of poor housekeeping.

In the home of Mr. Alexander Holder, he took me aside after he had examined the remainder of the broken Beryl Coronet.

“Talk to Miss Holder alone,” he said. “Ask her about Sir George Burnwell. Don’t say anything about his reputation as you have heard of it. And for God’s sake don’t let her uncle hear you.” Then he went out into the snow to further study the footprints.

“Miss Holder,” I said, as Mr. Holder wrung his hands yet again, “you look dreadfully pale.” It was certainly true. “This cannot have been any easier for you than for your uncle.”

“I suppose not,” she said, looking at her hands, “but I do know Arthur is innocent. Mr. Holmes – do you think he truly agrees with me, or is he merely attempting to provide comfort?”

“I have never known him to make any firm statement about a case which he was not utterly certain of,” I said.

“Oh, thank you.” But she was still pale, and repeatedly glanced nervously at her uncle.

“You should take something,” I said. “I was a nurse – I should prescribe strong tea.”

“Uncle?” she said. “Will you have something?”

“What? No,” he said. “I cannot think of it. But do go, Mary.”

We went down the stairs, where Miss Holder found a maid and asked for a tray before taking me to the sitting room. I was not sure how long Holmes would take, but knowing him it would more likely be long than short.

“Surely you must have many friends to help you if this becomes worse,” I said once she had poured the tea.

“We don’t care much for society,” she said, not drinking. “We meet little company, except uncle’s partner Mr. Stevenson.”

“He also mentioned a friend of your cousin’s, I think,” I said. “Surely he could speak to Mr. Holder’s character.”

“Oh, Mr. Burnwell, yes,” said Miss Holder, her hand suddenly clenching around the edge of the table. “But – uncle does not quite approve of him, I think.”

“Do you know why not?” I asked.

“Oh – I don’t know,” she said, paler than ever.

“Do drink your tea,” I said. I placed my hand over hers where it gripped the table. “It will do your cousin no good for you to fret so.” She took a reluctant swallow of the drink. “If there’s little reason not to approve of him, he might be of some comfort to you, if he knows your cousin so well.”

“I – oh,” she said. “Oh – I don’t know. It is all very distressing.”

“It must be,” I said. “But do trust in Mr. Holmes. He will find the culprit, no matter who he is, and your cousin will be safe.”

“Yes – yes,” she said. “I don’t think I should have more. I am so sorry, you must excuse me, but I really feel quite ill. If you do not mind -”

“No, of course not,” I said. What else could I say? “Do go lie down.”

I thought the interview a complete failure, but when I told Holmes about it on our way back to Baker Street he nodded and said, “That is most useful, Watson. Thank you.”

Clients who insisted that Holmes dismiss me were usually informed that he did not need their business. I objected to such statements strongly, but Holmes merely raised an eyebrow at me when I voiced it, and then picked up his violin or turned back to whatever chemical experiment he was occupied with the moment.

But such occasions were rare. I was compassionate and understanding to clients in distress, and private clients, male or female, were generally under enough strain that they would either ignore or be comforted by the presence of a woman, so long as they knew they were in the hands of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

The inspectors of Scotland Yard, however, were not so personally concerned with the cases they brought to Holmes. They were quite willing to put up with me for the sake of their reputations, which Holmes had done a great deal to prop up, but they saw me more often than any others, and I suppose it was natural that they speculated. For Holmes treated me with a sort of casualness and camaraderie that was quite unlike how he or any man I knew treated other women.

It was that that caused the problems. Holmes has little concern for the perceptions of others, which is why he generally disdains fame. And after the Stoner case he entirely stopped making allowances for any supposed feminine weakness, whether we were alone or not.

When Holmes consulted Inspector Jones and Mr. Merryweather shortly before the conclusion of the case of the Red Headed League, they were quite startled by the idea that I would be lying in wait in the cellar with them. They were even more startled later, when Holmes told me, “If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.” Mr. Merryweather looked positively afraid of me for the rest of the evening.

Whenever we travelled together for a case I attracted strange looks from the locals, especially the police. Whenever Holmes mentioned me or addressed me simply as “Watson,” they stared. Quite often some man would take Holmes aside and speak to him privately, and I did not need my friend’s powers of observation to notice the significant looks they gave me while doing so.

Generally it was not even offence at my presence, or I might have felt righteous at my place at his side. But it was most often concern for me, that I could not be confronted with the facts of the matter. I did not know how to face that, though Holmes, as usual, did.

On one such occasion he said, quite loudly, “Lestrade, Watson was an Army nurse. You need not fear that she will engage in any unnecessary dramatics at the sight of a mere bloodstain. And she is certainly far more useful at a crime scene than your constable outside, who has clearly let someone into this room.”

The official police never react well to being made to look like fools, but it had never stopped Holmes before, and they needed him as much as ever. I tried not to recall that they did not need me.


	4. Chapter 4

It was one grim October, several years after Holmes had first taken lodgings with me, that matters finally came to a head. Lestrade was investigating the case of Lord St. Simon’s missing bride, which Holmes had been called in on privately. Holmes was being rather rude – not much more than normally, but even normally Holmes can be rather trying.

I realized after a while that every time Lestrade mentioned Flora Millar, the nobleman’s former mistress, he glanced quickly at me and then away. I was not certain of the meaning of this at the time, but I thought Holmes was noticing it as well.

At last Lestrade said, “I’ve wasted time enough,” and rose. “I believe in hard work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter first.” He thrust his things into a bag and headed for the door.

“Just one hint to you, Lestrade,” drawled Holmes before his rival left. “I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such person.”

Lestrade looked sadly at Holmes and shook his head solemnly. He hurried away, and I went before him to open the door.

In the hall, he looked at me for a moment, as if he was fighting with himself. “Miss Watson,” he said finally, “use your influence to get him to drop the matter. He’ll only make a fool of himself, and I assure you I shouldn’t like to see that.”

“I have no influence with him,” I said, rather surprised.

“Oh, well, you may say that, but of course you do,” he said. “I know women have their ways, and you – well, you don't look it, but none of us ever thought Holmes was at all susceptible.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said coldly.

“We’re not such fools as he paints us,” said Lestrade. “We do know about you. Convince him to drop it. I’ll say no more. Ah, good day.”

I did not reply as he left. I shut the door behind him with far more firmness than necessary. I intended to go right up and tell Holmes he needed to find a way to stop this, but instead the detective came down. “There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor work,” he said. “I think I shall busy myself with it for a little.” He went out at once, and, still concerned over the possible urgency of the case, I did not stop him.

But after the conclusion of the mystery and our dinner with the Moultons, the talk of marriage recalled to me the insult I had received. I stood from my chair and paced a little as Holmes expressed some sympathy for Lord St. Simon. I had to say something about it, now that it truly could no longer be ignored.

“No violin tonight, then, Watson?” asked Holmes.

I leaned against the arm of my chair, frowning at him. “Inspector Lestrade thinks you’ve debauched me,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, sobering. “I am sorry, Watson. I have tried to convince him otherwise.”

“I know,” I said, crossing my arms. “And it isn’t working. Heaven knows what your guests thought of me – Lord St. Simon was certainly thinking _something_. Lestrade isn’t bad on his own – he means well, I think. But I should prefer not to be treated as a whore by Scotland Yard, if you don’t mind.”

“It has not got to that point yet,” said Holmes – not a deduction but _anger_ , anger that would defend me if it did. Little good that it would do then.

“It will,” I said, “if you do not stop treating me as you would a man. Certainly if you do not stop me from assisting in your work.”

“Do you want me to?” he asked. He knew the answer, of course.

“No. What better ideas do you have?”

He took a long breath. “I believe the easiest -” He broke off abruptly. “My apologies.” Another breath. “My dear Miss Watson,” he said, his tone now courtly, “will you do me the very great honour of accepting my hand in marriage?”

I was rather staggered to hear him say it, but it didn’t last long. “If you can’t think of anything else, yes,” I said. “You needn’t coddle me, Holmes.”

He nearly choked himself laughing, and I did as well, moving to sit properly in the chair. “My dear Watson,” he said at last, still grinning, the sentiment far more genuine. “Just when you appear the most conventional you say something like that. It’s quite refreshing.”

“It isn’t my first proposal, you know,” I said.

“No?”

“Once before my training, and once in the army. Well, more than once, but the other men were feverish at the time.”

“None appealed, clearly,” he said, though he paused for a moment after it – I suspected to watch my reaction and see if he was right. “But another might, later.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Men always want to offer me safety.”

He smiled at that, at the contrast with what he was offering me, but soon his face went back to what might have been concern. “It will not be an ordinary marriage,” he said. I laughed again. He sighed.

“You had still better think it through, Watson. Unless, that is, you already have?”

“I did think it might be the easiest solution,” I said. “I should have known you would as well.”

He shook his head. “I know you do not want a normal life,” he said. “I won’t insult you by suggesting that you don’t know your own mind. But – do think it over. I myself would prefer almost any other way, and you must realize that by that I mean...” He frowned. “I mean that I ... A normal marriage would not be to my tastes, either. But I suspect largely for different reasons.”

“I wouldn’t expect a normal marriage,” I said. “In any sense. But as you say, it would be easiest. I don’t think I need to think it over any further than that. I highly doubt I will have any other offers, and, truly, Holmes, I don’t think I would prefer them.”

“You do yourself an injustice,” he said, which was odd, since he normally was not inclined to empty courtesy. “But I suppose it can always be annulled if circumstances change. If you are certain, I think sooner would be better.”

“Yes, I do too. Although everyone will probably assume I’m increasing, you know.”

“How surprised they will be,” he said. “Good Heavens, I shall have to invite Mycroft. That will be interesting.”

“Mycroft?”

“My brother,” he said.

“Your brother!” said I. “I never knew you had one. Is he like you?”

“In appearance, not at all. In intellect, however, he is vastly my superior.”

“Your superior? I doubt that; were it so everyone in England would know his name.”

“It is not intellect solely that is required to be well known. Energy is needed as well, and Mycroft has none. Furthermore, he prefers not to be spoken of. He finds society abhorrent. Yet I think he would still be a little put out at not receiving an invitation to his own brother’s wedding.”

A troubling thought occurred to me. “I hope you’re not thinking of anything large?”

“Oh, heavens no,” he said. “I am sorry. Of course not. Mycroft is the only family I have. He would, if you like, be able to get us a special license. Then we should just need witnesses, and we could manage it with as little fuss as possible.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I would certainly prefer that.” I might have dreamt of lace and orange blossoms as a girl, but they were quite ridiculous in the context of this arrangement.


	5. Chapter 5

By now, he had so often asked me to look something over when I brought him breakfast, or listen to an idea at dinner, that we generally ate meals together. The next evening, he asked me after dinner if I still agreed, and I assured him that I did.

“I shall wire Mycroft, then – no.” He smiled. “I don’t think I shall wire him. Let us see how long it takes him to figure it out on his own. Shall we go, Watson? The Diogenes Club does not generally appreciate the presence of women, but I believe an exception will be made for you.”

“The Diogenes Club?” I put my hat on as I asked, and shortly we were in the street.

“There are many men in London, you know, who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion. My brother was one of the founders, and I have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere.”

We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were walking down it from the St. James's end. Sherlock Holmes stopped at a door some little distance from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not to speak, he led the way into the hall. Through the glass panelling I caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room, in which a considerable number of men were sitting about and reading papers, each in his own little nook. Holmes showed me into a small chamber which looked out into Pall Mall, and then, leaving me for a minute, he came back with a companion whom I knew could only be his brother.

Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, though massive, had preserved something of the sharpness of expression which was so remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery grey, seemed to always retain that far-away, introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock’s when he was exerting his full powers.

“And you are Miss Watson,” he said. “I have been eager to meet you; Sherlock seems quite uncharacteristically impressed by you.” His gaze reminded me of how disconcerting I had found his brother’s on our first meeting, though I had thought myself immune to that by now.

“I have attempted to help in his work,” I said.

“More than attempted, as he reports it,” said Mr. Holmes. “But why the sudden introduction, brother?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave his brother an encouraging look. Mycroft Holmes snorted.

“Yes, I am asking. It is not for a case, or you would be talking of nothing else. Miss Watson is evidently not in any sort of trouble, and is well equipped to deal with it should she be. Don’t be tiresome, dear boy.” He smiled as he said it, and Sherlock laughed a little – it was perhaps not the scolding it sounded like but a private joke.

“I’ve come to ask your blessing,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“Truly? For wh -” Mycroft Holmes’ eyebrows froze halfway up his forehead. He looked between us. “Really, Sherlock, you might have the decency to let a man sit down before making announcements like that.” He found his way to a chair. His gaze had settled on me. It wasn’t hostile, precisely, but it was very, very piercing, though his face otherwise showed only surprise. I tried not to make my relief too obvious when he refocused his attention onto Holmes, who only gazed mildly back at him.

“Good heavens,” he said at last. “I never thought I would see the day. My goodness.”

The corners of Holmes’ mouth twitched. “We’d like it to be very simple. Could you see about a special license?”

Mycroft smiled slightly. “The registry office for you, of course. Yes, I think I might manage that. My congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you,” I managed. His smile at me looked genuine.

A few days later, Sherlock Holmes passed a marriage license across the table to me at breakfast. “The Archbishop of Canterbury,” I said, staring at it. “Oh my.” It simultaneously felt terrifyingly real and rather ridiculous – no doubt because we really had no right to marry at all.

“It is entirely at your discretion,” said Holmes.

“Of course I will. I benefit from this arrangement far more than you, you know.”

“Not at all. No time to waste, then. Is there anyone whom you would prefer as a second witness?”

I thought briefly of the few people in London I knew well enough to ask, and shook my head.

“We’ll find someone about, then. Mycroft will be at Whitehall this morning. We can go whenever you are ready.”

“It may be a couple hours before I can manage,” I said. I took the trays downstairs for the scullery maid to wash up – I had two maids now, and might someday be able to get a cook, what luxury – and then mounted the stairs to my room.

I found my best dress from before Afghanistan, desperately in need of ironing, terribly out of fashion, and not quite fitting properly, especially in the sleeves. I hadn’t thought about the need for it before this morning. I tried it on and discovered I could not bend my arms. When had I gained so much muscle?

No use. I searched through my clothes. Even the rather nice dress I wore on the rare occasions I went to church seemed wrong. At last I picked up a plain, dark dress, one of two I had made up deliberately to be hard-wearing and unobtrusive, and to allow freedom of movement. It was not the sort of thing any woman would choose to be married in. But I’d made it so that I should have something for when I followed Holmes about on cases, and it seemed appropriate.

When I knocked on his door, he was wearing morning dress. “Ready?” he said, making no comment on my attire. I nodded.

“Good. I hope you don’t mind a cab?”

“Not at all.”

It went quite quickly. The cab took us to Whitehall, where Mycroft, with much grumbling, agreed to disrupt his routine, and then to the registry office, where we borrowed a clerk to witness us signing the certificate. Once we were at the office I relaxed – all I needed to do now was follow instructions.

Mycroft Holmes took us out to lunch afterwards, somewhere worryingly ornate and no doubt expensive, and proved to be as excellent a conversationalist as his brother at his most charming. And then we went home, and I busied myself with all the matters that had come up while I was out. At last that evening I passed up the stairs and glanced into Holmes’ apartment to see if he needed anything.

“Nothing at all. Good night, Watson,” he said cheerfully. Then he frowned. “That is, Jane.” He said it hesitantly, as if he was not sure it was actually my name.

I laughed nervously. “I think I should still prefer Watson, actually.”

“Good,” he said with some relief. “Good night, then, Watson.”

“Good night, Holmes.”


End file.
